The Queen's Portrait
by Wardown
Summary: This is part of the same series as And What Shall Ye Leave to Your Sister Dear, Sweet Brother? It is set a few years after the events in that story. It depicts Sansa as Queen in the North, but she is not a good Queen.


"Do I really look so dour?" How do you give an honest answer, when a tyrant asks you such a question?" Marin Falier asks his drinking companion.

Robin Flint looks around nervously. "Don't call her that? Walls have ears." The tavern in Wintertown is full, which makes private conversations rather easier. But, you never know who might be an agent of the Queen's Inquisition. Even hearing a subversive remark can be deemed sedition, if it is not immediately reported to the authorities. Like everyone else, Flint has heard the tales. Of what happens to prisoners who are sent to the mines or logging camps in the Wolfswood, or else shipped East, as "apprentices" or "indentured labourers" . But, in the end, curiosity wins out. "So, what did you say to her Grace?"

"I told her that I saw her as regal, dignified, poised, and was reflecting that in my portrait of her."

"That was quick thinking on your part. I know she's brought you in from Braavos to paint her, but even so, I wouldn't want to get on her wrong side. " He pauses, and drains his goblet of wine, before asking "What's it like inside the Palace?". The Palace. Winterfell was once a drafty old castle, but is now in the process of being completely rebuilt.

"Honestly? It's another world. Silk hangings, Myrish carpets, art galleries, libraries, banqueting suites, hot and cold running water. Oh, and those eggs that her Grace is so fond of. You know the ones. Made of gold, silver, platinum, and studded with jewels. Just one of them must be worth a village." Rents and taxes may rise, year on year, but the Queen still does herself proud. A nasty, treasonous, heretical, thought forms in Flint's mind, unbidden_. Men say the Dragon Queen always shared her people's hardships._ Gods above! If he expressed such an opinion, the very least he could expect is to have his tongue ripped out. The Wolf Queen's propagandists never cease to stress the Targaryen's cruelty and sexual depravity, and how fortunate the North is to have such a just, gentle, and chaste Queen as the present one. "Sansa the Wise" they call her. He suspects that many of the Smallfolk, and even some of the lords, have other names for her, most of them unmentionable. She seems popular enough in Wintertown though, where her court spends the money she extracts from the rest of the North.

Yes, it's another world. Not even the Sealord's palace compares, now. muses Falier, as he passes through the polished teak doors of the Throne Room. Yet, he would want none of it. Bodyguards are stationed everywhere in the Palace. He has already been searched twice, and will be searched again, before he resumes painting the Queen. She is waiting for him on the Throne, her Queensguard stationed around it, along with several courtiers present. As previously instructed, he prostrates himself before her, until the chamberlain bids him to rise. A man whom he recognises as Maester Wolkan is having a vigorous discussion with her. Her infant daughter, Princess Catelyn, sits on a smaller throne, beside hers.

"Your Grace, the Small Council in Kings Landing have expressed their unhappiness at your Eastern resettlement programme?"

"And, how many battalions does the Small Council possess, Maester Wolkan? They have problems far closer to home, as you never cease to tell me. I have rebuilt and fortified Moat Cailin, making it almost impossible for any Southron army to march North. I have put down my enemies, for the time being, but even so, armies and palaces do not pay for themselves. There will always be traitors in my Realm, and constant vigilance is required to root them out. Enemy families who are resettled far away from my Realm cease to be a problem."

"And their children?"

"Maester Wolkan" replies one smooth courtier. "If traitors are deported from the Realm, do you truly suppose that their children can be maintained by the Queen's Grace? Naturally, they must leave with their parents. Besides, as our friends in the East like to put it "Little fingers are better suited for little tasks. And, entail little wages." There is a round of sycophantic laughter from the courtiers.

"Maester Wolkan, it is time for my daughter's lesson in High Valyrian. See to it. " The girl rises, and leaves the Throne Room with Wolkan.

Falier approaches the Throne, seeing that his easel, paints, and brushes, have already been set up on a long table. One of the Queensguard approaches him, and frisks him expertly, and leads him to his task. He stares intently at the Queen, who is wearing a platinum crown, and cloth of silver dress, embroidered with a pattern of red silk weirwood trees. The effect is most striking. She remains a truly beautiful woman, red-haired, with piercing blue eyes and fine features. And yet, he would never want to be her husband. By all accounts, she ceased sleeping with the man, once she had conceived her daughter. If the stories he has heard about her earlier life are true, it is no wonder that she can hardly bear intimacy with another person. He works skilfully, and with patience, for a couple of hours. He began the portrait a week ago, and it is now complete. He thinks he has captured her nature perfectly, in his portrait. _The sneer of cold command _. The words of an old poem come to mind. But. will she like it?

The Queen actually rises from the Throne, to come and inspect it, a rare honour. She stares at the painting for a long time, showing no trace of her feelings. Then she smiles, something that reminds him of ice cracking on a frozen river as it melts.

"You have surpassed yourself, Master Falier. I could make you my official artist, employ you directly, if you wish."

"You do me too much honour, your Grace. Alas, I have many patrons in Braavos, including the Sealord himself. I cannot disappoint them."

"I trust that you will enjoy our hospitality for a little while longer."

"I should be delighted, your Grace". Nothing in fact, would give him less pleasure. One day, he suspects, her people will drive her from her Throne, but hopefully not before he has returned to his city.

**Notes:**

The jewelled eggs that Sansa collects are similar to those produced by Carl Faberge for the Russian Imperial Family.


End file.
